That evening was one that the boy was long to remember.  It suddenly came to him that he had read a few days before of Mrs. Abraham Lincoln’s arrival in New York at Doctor Holbrook’s sanitarium.  Thither Edward went; and within half an hour from the time he had been talking with General Grant he was sitting at the bedside of Mrs. Lincoln, showing her the wonderful photograph just presented to him.  Edward saw that the widow of the great Lincoln did not mentally respond to his pleasure in his possession.  It was apparent even to the boy that mental and physical illness had done their work with the frail frame.  But he had the memory, at least, of having got that close to the great President.

The eventful evening, however, was not yet over.  Edward had boarded a Broadway stage to take him to his Brooklyn home when, glancing at the newspaper of a man sitting next to him, he saw the headline:  “Jefferson Davis arrives in New York.”  He read enough to see that the Confederate President was stopping at the Metropolitan Hotel, in lower Broadway, and as he looked out of the stage-window the sign “Metropolitan Hotel” stared him in the face.  In a moment he was out of the stage; he wrote a little note, asked the clerk to send it to Mr. Davis, and within five minutes was talking to the Confederate President and telling of his remarkable evening.

Mr. Davis was keenly interested in the coincidence and in the boy before him.  He asked about the famous collection, and promised to secure for Edward a letter written by each member of the Confederate Cabinet.  This he subsequently did.  Edward remained with Mr. Davis until ten o’clock, and that evening brought about an interchange of letters between the Brooklyn boy and Mr. Davis at Beauvoir, Mississippi, that lasted until the latter passed away.

Edward was fast absorbing a tremendous quantity of biographical information about the most famous men and women of his time, and he was compiling a collection of autograph letters that the newspapers had made famous throughout the country.  He was ruminating over his possessions one day, and wondering to what practical use he could put his collection; for while it was proving educative to a wonderful degree, it was, after all, a hobby, and a hobby means expense.  His autograph quest cost him stationery, postage, car-fare—­all outgo.  But it had brought him no income, save a rich mental revenue.  And the boy and his family needed money.  He did not know, then, the value of a background.

He was thinking along this line in a restaurant when a man sitting next to him opened a box of cigarettes, and taking a picture out of it threw it on the floor.  Edward picked it up, thinking it might be a “prospect” for his collection of autograph letters.  It was the picture of a well-known actress.  He then recalled an advertisement announcing that this particular brand of cigarettes contained, in each package, a lithographed portrait of some famous actor or actress,